


Ulalume: Side Stories

by Manita_Muerte



Series: The Thief, The Jester, and the Battlemage [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-06-06 03:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15186269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manita_Muerte/pseuds/Manita_Muerte
Summary: An off-shoot of the main fic: 'Ulalume'; These are drabbles, side stories, or otherwise irrelevant plot-threads that never made it to the main narrative. How each are categorized will be stated at the beginning of every story. Spoilers for the main fic are possible and should be expected. With that said, reading these shorts without context of the main fic is not recommended. They will most likely not be in any particular order, either.





	1. Training

**Author's Note:**

> This drabble is set during the time before Cicero's death, before Ulalume is named Listener. I consider it canon to the main fic.
> 
> I'd recieved a few comments that expressed the desire to see more pre-death interaction and friendship between Cicero and Ulalume, and I have quite a few conversations and scenes that never made it into the final draft of the narrative, so I thought I'd share them instead of just keeping them on a flashdrive, never to be read by others.
> 
> My decision not to publish them originally was mostly due to pacing issues and my reluctance to rehash questlines.
> 
> I'm happy to finally share these scenes that I worked so hard on!

I leaned against the cobbled doorway that lead into the jester's personal quarters. He was sitting parallel to the entrance, gaze focused elsewhere as he tapped out an unheard song with his feet.

"...Hey, Cicero? Can you help me practice something today?"

The red-head popped up from his chair like a Jack-In-The-Box, an eager expression crossing his painted features. "Oh of course dear Sister! What shall Cicero help you practice, hm?"

I lean a bit further in, not sure if I'm allowed to pass through the doorway or if I'd be infringing on his personal space. "There's a technique I've been meaning to practice, and the straw-dummies won't do."

"Oh?"

"It's a defensive move, meant to be done on an attacker as a response. Strawmen can't attack me first -- well, not without some sort of weird magic, I guess."

He nodded, as if what I'd said was very wise and educated. "Yes, I see your predicament. Cicero can help! ...Um, what do you want me to do, exactly?" I made a motion with my hand to signal that I wanted him to follow me first, and he quickly moved into action.

It didn't take long for us to arrive in the training area. After shrugging off my dark robes to reveal the leather armor of our organization underneath, I turned to the jester beside me. He suddenly clammed up when my eyes met his.

"What now?" He squeaked out, his gaze moving to watch an unseen object just behind me. I resisted the urge to look.

"First, I want you to attack me. The goal is for me to avoid your strike, disarm you, and then make what would be considered a killing blow in a real battle."

The jester tittered, "Disarm me? Take the right one, then. I tend to be left-handed most of the time."

I felt my face heat up with effort as I tried not to laugh at his silly joke.

"I'm being serious." I remind him gently --

"So am I, Sister!" He replied, breaking into a full barking laugh.

I walked over to the weapons rack and picked out a pair of daggers, both with the edges smoothed and sharp points turned blunt and thick. "Here," I handed him one -- simple iron, like its twin I held. "We'll use these training ones instead of the real deal. And don't be afraid to go all out, I'm not as helpless as I like to look -- "

In one swift movement the jester took the dagger from my grip, spun it right-ways in his palm and threw his arm out. The blade struck just hard enough into my throat that the metal made the skin dimple against it. In shock, I froze to the spot, barely registering what had happened until the point pressed just hard enough into the soft flesh that it made it uncomfortable.

The red-head clucked his tongue teasingly, "You have to be quicker than that, dear Sister."

I gathered myself for half a measure to be sure I wouldn't stutter with either embarrassment or shock. "...We haven't started yet, Keeper."

The dagger's weight eased against my throat."...Will the one attacking you for real announce that the fight has begun?" He questioned, tilting his head slightly.  
I peered into his face and searched for malice or smug pride -- but I found nothing but curiosity.

"No." I answered, shame bleeding into my voice. " I guess not."

He laughed quietly, performing a sloppy half-finished curtsy, brandishing the dagger with flourish. "Shall we begin now, Sister? Cicero has to admit, he's a bit eager. Puts oil in the old cogs, you know -- can't be getting rusty, can I?"

I nod and move towards the center of the training area, readying myself into a solid stance. I'm not surprised that Cicero doesn't, just simply moves to stand in front of me.

"Okay, ready."

He didn't hesitate, moving forward with such speed that I nearly was unable to defend myself. I avoided his strike by stumbling backwards, the force of it nearly sending me onto the ground. Since I failed to disarm him, he continued his strikes --

I tried to follow or even begin to understand the cadence of the attacks, some wild and heavy-handed swings and others quick and light jabs -- but there was no pattern. I was forced to deflect him at every turn, unable to quickly formulate a plan in between.

Finally, I decided that perhaps I was just thinking too hard. I forced my way under his arm and struck him with my free hand -- gently enough not to cause real bodily harm, but enough to shock the muscles and tendons there to freeze and constrict. His arm stiffened and his fingers loosened enough that with the swing of his attack it made him fling it half-way across the room.

Still under the arc of his swing, I pushed up into his ribs with my dagger, jamming it uncomfortably so that he ceased immediately with a startled huff.

I was panting quite hard, not having expected him to move so fast or relentlessly. He didn't even seem winded. I let myself drop my own weapon and slumped down to my knees to rest for a moment.

"...You're...Really fast. Are...You sure...That you're rusty?" I huffed out a breathless laugh, batting away a stray curl from my forehead. It stubbornly stuck there with the thin sheen of sweat that had begun to form there and I cursed under my breath.

The jester laughed as well, his expression a bit bashful. "Never underestimate your opponent, Ula."

"Shall we try again?"

"If you're not too tired." He teased. I sighed and picked up the dagger on the floor, and resumed a ready stance. He found his shortly after and met me in the middle of the room.

"Again."

This time he wasn't so quick to lunge at me, instead he slunk around to my flank with purpose, eyes fixed on my face. Around and around he went, predatory gaze never leaving mine. I was nervous, I admit -- unknowing of when he'd strike. I flinched once when he feinted and it made him laugh, which only served to make me angry.

"You're too tense, Sister. Relax."

"That sounds like something someone would say who wants me to let down my guard." I mutter back.

"No, Cicero is just giving you some friendly advice." He shot back, breaking the intensity of his posture with a lackadaisical shrug. "You'll get hurt worse, that way."

I frowned deeply, but loosened my stance some. He was right. It was a lot like tucking and rolling, instead of putting the force of the fall onto your feet. He seemed satisfied with my nonverbal acquiescence and smiled manically at me.

"Good." With that, he swung wildly at my face, and I was able to dodge by ducking under the swing. With one swift movement I grabbed the underside of his arm and shoved it upwards -- forcing his shoulder into an irregular position.

Normally, one would move with the force in an attempt to keep their shoulder from being dislocated, but not Cicero. He quickly twisted himself before I could push up any harder, pulling my grip with his until he could force himself behind me and put me into an awkward choke-hold-like position. It trapped my arm between his and since my wrist was parallel with my neck, whenever I tried to slither it out he squeezed his arm harder, effectively making me choke myself.

I blush and burn to admit that I panicked slightly, unsure of what to do. I thought about what I would do in a real situation, however it involved moves that would most assuredly hurt him for real.

Bashing in his nose with my head would cause severe trauma, bleeding -- perhaps even kill him later if I hit him just right. Cracking him in the knee would probably break it, and sweeping his feet from under us somehow... Would only serve to put us on the... Floor --

I pulled forwards, using my core strength to lift him partially off his feet. He pulled his weight back to the floor, lifting me up from my own ability to touch the ground, squeezing harder so that I began to see spots.

It didn't hurt, of course, but the panic of losing my breath was starting to get to me a little, and the loss of control over my own body. I used my free arm to steady myself, scrabbling to try and hold on to anything. In the chaos of my movement, I had managed to pull the jester's hat off, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and then settled for a handful of the velvet motley at his shoulder -- thinking that perhaps I could use the fabric later to incapacitate him if I managed to free my other arm.

"This is...A little romantic, don't you think?" The jester teased, a giggle bursting forth from his semi-serious facade. I was a little upset that he thought so little of my ability to get out of this hold that he had let down his guard completely -- though I couldn't argue that I had little options left.

I tried to wrap my legs around him, but he was behind me and the only thing I managed was hooking one of mine around his. He was, of course, nonplussed about this. My vision was starting to grow blurry, and the one foot that wasn't touching the ground twitched against the desire to begin thrashing.

I didn't want to thrash, I didn't want to show my panic. I didn't want to seem like I had lost control of the situation. Thrashing, while it might, in theory, prove effective to get out, may only serve to make me more tired and breath-starved.

My eyes began to water as he increased the pressure of his hold, slowing me down even more. I pulled all my dead weight towards my feet and twisted myself in a way that forced me to partially face him. I felt his breath across my face, our eyes locked. I could see the spatter of freckles across his nose. I was close enough to his face where I could count his individual eyelashes if I wanted to, and it made me squirm.

"Oh, now this is even better." He tittered, looking slightly disheveled from my grabs before. He was slightly flushed, the arm around my waist squeezing harder than before -- forcing more air out of my lungs. I was pressed against him uncomfortably, biting my tongue against a curse.

"What is -- !? Oh. You're sparring, I see." Veezara's cool voice slid smoothly past the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I turned to look (as much as I could, in the awkward position I was in) to see him standing nearby, gazing into the training area.

The jester laughed, but made no move to release me due to the interruption. "You scales seem pale, Brother. Are you worried for Ula?"

"No, I just -- For a moment I thought you two were in a lover's embrace. I felt my soul start to leave my body." The Argonian laughed huskily, "But I see now." He turned to me, shifting his gaze slightly. "Ula, how do you plan on getting out of that?"

The pressure was suddenly increased tenfold. The last classically trained Shadowscale was watching me; Not to mention the fact that most everybody else regarded Cicero as a simpleton with no skill -- an opinion I never agreed with, and in practice found to be true, as it was clear moreso now in his choke-hold. Failing in front of any of them like this would surely make me a joke to them, and shame would hang on my shoulders like an ill-fitting yoke for the rest of my days.

"I -- I don't exactly know yet. " I admitted, hoping for some friendly advice.

The Argonian scoffed, "Good. You can't. You're totally incapacitated. How could you let this happen? I thought your specialty was grappling and hand-to-hand combat?"

"It is -- " I defended, but was quickly cut off by a quick squeeze of Cicero's arm. I choked slightly and coughed when he eased up.

"Clearly." He mumbled teasingly. "Silly Cicero got the best of you this time, Sister. Perhaps you need more practice than you once thought."

"I'll leave you two to it, then." Veezara mumbled, leaving the room as quietly as he came into it.

My face burned with shame as Cicero finally let me go completely. I fell to the ground but managed to catch myself before I hit my knees on the cobble. I soothed my throat by rubbing my fingers on my neck, but it did nothing to stifle the pain of embarrassment.

"Let's go again." I mumbled, rising to my full height.

The jester smiled. "As you wish, Sister."


	2. Alchemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set just after Ula is named Listener, so it's before Cicero's death. It's another one that was cut for pacing purposes, but it establishes some intimacy between the characters that is referenced a lot in the main fic.

I pulled the hem of his velvet shirt up to his chest, surveying the damage. The usually pale skin was colored with ghastly purple and yellow-green bruises along the left side, the look of it much like a watercolor painting stretched over his ribs.

"It looks pretty bad, but nothing that will put you out of commission for too long." I reach out to run my fingers along his ribs, attempting to feel for any major cracks or breaks. He squirms away from my touch with a mixture of a giggle and a gasp of pain. 

"-- Haha! That tickles, My Listener -- ! ...Ack, it -- it -- it hurts when I laugh..." He tittered, staring sheepishly up at me. 

"I'm checking to see if anything is broken." I inform him with a slight frown. He nods, his mouth forming a thin line. When I put my hands on him again, he bites his lip to stifle another giggle. " _ Relax _ . You're gonna hurt yourself more if you don't." I urge with an annoyed sigh. 

"Yes, My Listener." The Colovian tilts his head slightly, his eyes unusually focused on my face. "...You know how to do many things, don't you? First fixing wagon wheels, now this. You're just full of surprises!"

I give him a half-nod in response.

"...I'm used to taking care of myself." I murmured, "I personally know what sort of pain injuries like these can come with."

He says nothing more after this, which blankets over us in a sober familiarity.

My hands graze his side, taking care not to press  _ too _ hard, watching the way the skin stretches thin over the bones of his ribs. I ghost my fingers over the dips and raises, making note of the old scars marring the pale expanse. He hisses in pain at a specific touch, and I apologize gently. 

"Does it hurt to breathe?" I ask. 

"No, it just feels a little difficult." He mumbles.

"Sit up for me." 

He moves to a sitting position with difficulty, sucking in a sharp breath as I help pull him up by his velvet-clad hand.  "Hurts to move, though." The jester adds.

I glance up at the setting sun and sigh for what seems like the hundredth time today. There's decisions that have to be made, and quickly.

"...We'll have to stay camped for a while. I don't think anything is broken, but you're still badly injured. Unfortunately for you, I don't know how to use any restoration spells. But I think I know how I  _ can _ help." 

He protests _immediately,_ trying to sit up straighter. "It's okay! Cicero can get up and walk -- !" 

"You need to rest." I respond firmly, resisting the urge to shoot out my hand and keep him pinned to the spot. "You  _ will _ have to get up and walk later to help heal, but there's other things we have to do first --"

He scrambles over himself  to interject: "-- Like what? Let me at least help a  _ little _ , My Listener --" 

"No." I say again in an even firmer tone this time. He wilts slightly at the sound of my voice. "You just sit here, and I'll have to do the rest." 

He stammers out a weak protest, and then an apology.

I raise an eyebrow. "I won't accept an apology from you unless you promise that you will do as I say and nothing more. Are you going to _behave_ and listen, Keeper? It's for your own good."

He seems a bit stunned at my chastisement, frozen in place. 

His throat bobs with effort as he swallows, eyes roaming my face for a few brief moments. I await his answer patiently, watching his face turn from pale to slightly flushed under my scrutinizing gaze. His lips part slightly before he stammers: "O-of course, My Listener."

"Good." I hate speaking to him in such a way, but it seems to be the only way to get him to listen. The Jester was not a child, but treating him like one always made him compliant for reasons I was unsure of. 

When I'm convinced he'll sit like I've asked, I move quickly to start a fire for him to sit near. It would be harder to do the darker it got, so it was the first thing I decided to do. Then I move on to more important things on the to-do list, like finding the alchemical ingredients I need and bringing back a jug of water from the nearby water source. There was a stream nearby, thankfully, so I knew I wouldn't have to trek long. 

It's trivial work and doesn't take me long. The setting sun is only slightly lower in the sky by the time I return to camp.

When I've returned, I'm angry to see that the jester in the middle of partially setting up the tent. When he sees me approach he visibly shudders and shies away from meeting my irritable gaze like a dog caught eating scraps from the dinner table.

"What did I say!? You can't be moving around so much!" I scold him, forcing him to sit back next to the fire. "You could make your injuries worse." 

"You said I had to get up and move around earlier, plus --  _ I'm _ the Keeper.  _ I'm _ supposed to be the one -- " I make an angry and dismissive hand gesture, which seems to make him automatically clamp his teeth together. I stalk over to my things, close to where he is sitting. 

"Shut up, Cicero." I grumble, pulling out the tools I need from my pack to start making a healing salve --  "It's your fault for being in this situation in the first place. I mean, what were you thinking?" I busy myself with the tools, unable to look at him without getting angrier.  

He's quiet for a moment before he answers: "...You were going to get hurt. Cicero had to do _something_."Ah, now we were getting into the meat of the real problem.

"-- And body-blocking was the answer? Throwing yourself into harm's way? I had the situation under control. You don't need to do that -- I don't need protecting. I've done well enough on my own before you." 

His voice isn't small like I thought it would be, instead he's also getting upset: "Almost getting shield-bashed by a big stupid orc isn't  _ 'having the situation under control,'  _ Listener!"

I rolled my eyes. "I  _ wasn't _ going to get shield-bashed! You have to trust in my method."

He frowns, which makes his face look unnatural. "Your so-called  _ 'method' _ is putting yourself in direct danger. Cicero can't risk Ula getting hurt -- or worse!" His amber eyes meet mine. "What are we going to do without a Listener if you were to die?"

I sigh irritably through my nose and glance up at him. It's always  _ 'Listener this,' _ and  _ 'Listener that.' _ I realize how important such things are to him, but it only serves to make me more upset. "I dunno. I don't really think about dying too much. Do you?"

Silence reigns between us for a moment, giving us a chance to cool down from our sudden spike in anger.

The jester's expression softens a little. "You're important to The Dark Brotherhood, Listener. You can't just go barreling head-first into dangerous situations. Cicero can try as hard as he might, but I  _ can't _ be everywhere at once if something goes wrong. You have to be more careful."

The genuine and serious tone of his voice strikes a chord in me, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. 

"..." I feel my face burn with a bit of shame. Not enough that I was going to apologize, however. I still think what happened was foolish, because I  _ did _ have everything under control.

I returned my gaze to the work of making the salve, placing the cooking pot I carried over the fire and filling it with the water from the jug. Cicero watched me silently as I placed oil, blue mountain flowers, and blisterwort into a bowl -- which fit snugly over the pot of water. I intended to bring the water to a boil and infuse the plant's healing properties into it.

"...I'm not used to being important." I release my train of thought, hating that I felt like I had to explain myself to him. 

He blinks. 

For a while he says nothing, eyes taking in some unseen information that must be on my face. In the meantime, I keep my eyes fixated, watching the oil mixture over the fire.

"...You're important." Is what he  _ says _ \-- but I can't tell if he means to say 'to me' or 'to us,' and  frankly -- either idea was terrifying to me. 

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't." I tell him honestly, which makes his frown deepen again. The disappointment and irritation makes him look older, forces the lines of his face to crack his skin in a way that seems so unnatural to him.

His voice is harder than it was before. "The Night Mother chose  _ you _ for a reason. You should be honored -- grateful. Thankful, even!" 

"I am." I amend before he goes into a tirade, "But it's...Difficult." 

He sounds positively scandalized by this confession. "The Night Mother thinks you can handle it." 

"...Yes, but I'm still not sure why." 

He peers into my face and I continue to avoid his gaze. "...Are you questioning Mother?" 

"No." 

"Then what's the issue, Listener?" 

I keep my eyes on the oil mixture, which has begun to thicken and slightly boil. I move the pot off the fire and set it on a rock near the flames to keep the water hot but not outright boiling. "I don't know. I guess I'm just not used to having people expect things from me."  _ Or care about me. _

The jester scoffs. "There's always a time to learn new things, hm?" 

"I guess." He doesn't really get it. Or maybe he doesn't want to. 

I grab a piece of thin linen wrap and another small bowl from my pack, then place the wrap tightly over the top of it. Carefully, I pour the oil and plant mixture over the bowl and drain it. The filtered oil lands in the bowl under the linen, and I tie up the leftover plants in the wrap to dry by the fire.

In the other bowl, I place a small chunk of refined beeswax to melt over the still-hot water in the pot. It doesn't take long to melt most of the way, so I pour the oil tincture into the wax and stir it gently; Immediately removing the bowl from the heat. 

"What's that?" Cicero asks, looking at the mixture. He looks pale, as if I'm going to spoon feed it to him, which is quite amusing. I don't smile or laugh, though.

"Healing salve." I mumble, "For your ribs. It's gotta solidify for a few minutes." 

When he realizes what I mean to do, he quickly moves into a half-reclined position, wincing a bit. "Listener, it's not necessary to -- " 

I remove myself from his presence hurriedly to stand and finish setting up the tent. The sun has begun to wane, and it will be difficult to see if I don't do it soon. I don't want to hear it. We both know that he's in bad shape. Medicine and a good night's rest will fix most of it, but in the morning he'll still be hurt. This was the least I could do. 

I thought about finishing the argument completely by hurting his feelings, telling him I was doing this because I didn't want him to be dead weight on the road or for him to be useless at his job as a result of the injuries he'd sustained -- but I stopped myself. I would be outright  _ lying _ if I said those things, and it was  proving to be an unnecessary course of action to get him to do what I wanted, which would be the only reason I would do such a thing.

He protests weakly but I get my work done quickly so as to save myself from listening to him bellyache about it for too long. I roll out his bedroll inside the tent and smooth it on the ground. Then I  tell him to lay on it. I help him stand with some difficulty and he manages to collapse on the bedroll without much fuss.

I start to think about what I'm going to do, and began busying myself with filling the increasingly awkward silence. "Are you ready?"   

"Listener, you really don't have to -- "

"I think the salve should be ready --  we should get started with the application as soon as we can." I mumble hurriedly, picking up the bowl to inspect it. I run my finger over the top, testing the texture. It seems to be a good, spreadable consistency.

There's a beat of silence while I ready myself to say what I must. I gather myself, rolling my shoulders back and making sure my hair is pulled away from my face, then turn to him. 

"...Okay, take your shirt off."

The jester immediately lets out a pained bark of laughter, as if he'd been holding his breath. "Cicero hasn't heard a woman say that to him in a long time -- !" He grunts  in pain when I reach out and pull the shirt up over his chest impatiently. He winces for a moment before continuing: "-- Oh, are we eager?" 

"Shut up. Don't make this more awkward then it has to be." I mumble, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I just want to get this over with. The longer you wait, the less potent the salve will be." He complies wordlessly, shedding the motley with some hesitation. I realize quickly that the humor was to cover for his embarrassment -- because he suddenly clams up, drawing his arms around his body. The evening has not yet turned cold -- and I begin to understand his demeanor the more I look at him.

It's no secret to anyone that he's a thin and pale slip of a man. The costume he wears is never snug on his torso and seems to hang from his frame.  One could also see the bones of his wrists easily -- not that I noticed for want of looking, just that it was obvious. I always worried about the malnourished and sleep-deprived state he always seemed to be in, and much of it was expressed by my constant urging that he get some sleep whenever he could or reminding him to eat. 

There's a part of me that has the sudden desire to tell him that he looks _fine_ and to relax -- it wasn't like I was going to ogle his physique or judge him and rate how attractive he is -- but I don't. I didn't need any more awkward jokes to make this any worse, even if they were his attempts to soothe his own anxiety. 

"Is -- is the salve cold?" He muttered, flinching from my reaching hands.

"It should still be a bit warm. I'll make sure to heat it in my hand, too." I answer. He nods wordlessly and settles back down into his bedroll. I scoop some of the salve onto my fingers and get to work spreading it over the discolored mess of his torso, moving closer to him. 

I press as gently as I can, willing the alchemical magic to do its work. His breath hitches slightly as I find my fingers trailing over a particularly nasty section of discolored skin just over his ribs. For the most part, it's an easy task ahead of me, but deciphering where the hurt radiated from was going to be a bit difficult.

He shudders in pain when I press a rather unfortunate spot and I mumble out a quick and sincere apology. He squirms and winces a few more times as I must cover these spots regardless of his pain to ensure an even layer of the salve.

The jester grabs my wrist and pulls my hand off of him momentarily, begging me to distract him a little. I do not dare ask why, only comply with his wishes by engaging in mundane conversation with him. I feel the heat of embarrassment start to creep up my neck again and try to swallow it back down. 

He gasps when I press on a particularly painful area, then bites hard down on his lip to stifle a manic giggle between his teeth. "Ahaha!  _ Sithis _ \-- I-it -- it hurts -- S-sorry, Listener -- " He stammers sheepishly. It's a strange affectation, laughing when he's hurt. He does it in combat, too -- though I don't really know why, or what it means.

"Just hold still." I urge, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice.

I make quick work of the affected areas without too much thought. I avoid eye contact through the whole thing, even while Cicero attempts to continue a conversation with me.

"--A-and he says to the man, 'That's not a horker --  _ that's my wife!' _ Haha -- ouch -- ! ...Oh, I love that one..." 

"I know you do." I respond politely, setting the bowl down. "Tell me another." I say, still trying to distract him as I finish up the last of the application. He continues prattling on, a lot less disheveled looking than he was when we first began. 

Soon, I watch as the salve glows with magic ever so faintly on the jester's bruised skin, which meant it was working. I let out a sigh of relief and pulled a roll of bandages from my pack. "Let's get you bandaged up, now." 

"Ah -- wait." He adjusts himself slightly, and I notice him struggle to re-position himself.

I help him into a half-reclining position once more, pulling him as gently as I could by his arm. Soon, I get to work on making a firm but not-too-tight arrangement of bandages to keep the salve from rubbing off on his motley and to keep it sealed overnight. The firmness would also alleviate some pressure and act as a brace without constricting his breathing, which was important.   
  
I move even closer to him each time I have to reach around and grab the roll of bandages from the back. I can feel him still and hold his breath. My eyes are momentarily drawn to the splatter of freckles on his shoulders, and I nearly drop the bandages in my distraction. I notice my hands are shaking. I suddenly realize It's been a long time since I've been so physically close to someone -- or touched another person. Not even a handshake or a simple clap on the back.  A strange and negative emotion begins to fill the hollow of my chest. It makes me feel sick and anxious.

I swallow it down quickly.

"Take three big breaths -- even if it hurts." I tell him, "You've got to keep the muscles strong in your chest. It will help with your recovery." The Colovian stares for a moment into my face, then nods. 

He did one big breath and stopped mid-way, shuddering with pain. Suddenly, the jester grabs my arm for support and finished the breath shakily. The other hand went to mine, squeezing the fingers when he attempted the second and third breath. 

I tense but make no move to remove myself from our point of contact.

When he realized we were holding hands, he pulled back quickly. "Sorry, Listener! It just -- it _hurts_." 

"...It's okay." I mumble, "I'm not some blushing maiden." He opens and closes his mouth, as if to reply. When he stays silent, I continue: "...Does it feel like the bandages are too tight?" 

The jester shifts slightly, testing the tightness by moving carefully. "No, Listener." 

"Okay, good." I consider him for another moment, fingers trailing along the bandages to make sure they are indeed snug and secured enough.

When I'm finished, I grab the neatly folded motley from nearby and hand it back to him. "...You can put your shirt back on." He takes the costume piece into his hands wordlessly, sighing with relief as he does. Like he's complete again. I help him pull the fabric down when raising his arms proves to cause a painful pause, but other than that he does well enough on his own.

"..." We're quiet as I begin to pull my tools back into my bag. I do feel a little bad about the whole situation, but I would never tell him that. 

I fumble with the last of the supplies, trying to get them all to fit in my pack neatly once more. Glancing up at the dying fire, I watch the shadows move along the sharp contours of The Jester's face. I still feel a bit dizzy, that strange feeling swimming around in my chest -- I was very aware that we had just crossed some sort of unspeakable line -- though I wasn't sure what it could be. 

I simply did what I thought was right, nothing more. A wordless thanks for throwing himself in front of an enemy for my sake -- but a warning that I indeed found him foolish for doing so.

I watch him in the darkness of the open tent,  trying to piece together what emotion he could be displaying on his face. It's too thoughtful, too wistful, too  _ depressed _ to belong to a madman who claims he cannot remember any of his past.

He looks at me suddenly, but I don't have the mind to be embarrassed to be caught staring.

"...Ula -- _My_ _Listener_." He corrects himself, and I wince slightly at the soft but formal tone. "Cicero...Wants to say...Thank you. For doing that." 

"Just don't make me have to do this again." I tell him, somewhat uncomfortable with such an unusual display of sincerity from the redhead.

"You don't understand, My Listener. Cicero hasn't had anyone to help take care of him when he's hurt in a long time, you see. He's forgotten what it's like."

I don't know what to say to this, so instead: "Do you feel better?"

"...Yes. It feels a lot better already." He ran a velvet-clad hand over his chest. "Ula is very good with alchemy!" 

I smile slightly, for his sake. "That's all that matters, then. I'm glad."


End file.
